


A Friend in Need

by ssclassof56



Series: World Enough and Time [3]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: F/M, Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-22
Updated: 2017-01-22
Packaged: 2018-09-19 05:26:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9420599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ssclassof56/pseuds/ssclassof56
Summary: Illya is suffering more than a hangover. Napoleon has set many a broken bone, but what can he do for a friend's broken heart?





	

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to LiveJournal for the Friendship Day Challenge

Napoleon knocked on the door to the apartment. There was no answer. “Illya,” he called, keeping his tone casual so as not to alarm the neighbors. He heard a muffled noise, which he took for an invitation. The lock responded to his key, and mindful of other possible security measures, he peeked around the door.

“Illya?” A stentorian snore greeted him, carried on a wave of hot, stale air. Napoleon followed the sound to the sofa, where he found Illya slumbering noisily. Napoleon said his name again. Illya grumbled and rolled onto his side. Napoleon’s concern at this unusually heavy sleep lasted only as long as it took him to survey the room. On the coffee table stood a half-empty bottle of Stolichnaya. He could see several others lined up around the trashcan in the kitchenette. Napoleon did some swift calculations. Seven bottles. Seven days since his partner’s abrupt decision to use his vacation time.

Napoleon frowned down at the sleeping Russian, anger and sadness darkening his brown eyes. “Dammit, Illya. Why didn’t you say something?”

Beginning to sweat, he turned down the radiator, which gurgled and clanked in complaint. Then he threw open the windows. Fresh, cold air blew through the apartment. On the sofa, Illya grumbled and stirred but did not wake.

Napoleon shook his shoulder. “Rise and shine, partner mine,” he declared loudly. When Illya didn’t comply, Napoleon gave him some assistance, hauling him upright so he leaned against the sofa back. “Illya, wake up,” he barked, slapping at his cheeks.

Illya’s eyelids fluttered open. “Napoleon?”

“Hey, there,” he responded. Illya’s eyes, red-rimmed and slightly bloodshot, struggled to focus. With a final, less-than-gentle pat on his cheek, Napoleon sat back on the coffee table and waited for Illya to regain consciousness.

“Napoleon, you came,” Illya said, pronouncing each word carefully.

“I did. Were you expecting me?”

“Of course. I left a message for you.”

“Ah, yes, your message. Cryptic, but apparently successful.”

“Successful,” Illya echoed, drawing out the Ss. “Exactly. I must tell you.”

He tried to rise, but his legs would not cooperate. So he instead pointed imperiously to a table across the room. “The record,” he said.

Napoleon went to the table. “This?” he asked, picking up a copy of _Days of Future Passed_.

Illya nodded, then winced and held his head. “Bring it here. But carefully. It is very dangerous.”

Napoleon looked from Illya to the innocuous looking album and back. Then, as carefully as if he were carrying an original Declaration, Napoleon brought the album across the room.

“Set it down on the table. Gently, gently.”

Napoleon followed his directives, feeling ridiculous and increasingly concerned. “Is it a bomb?”

Illya frowned and thought. “No,” he said finally, “not a bomb. But it’s dangerous, very dangerous.”

“How?”

Illya ran his hand through his hair. “I can’t remember. I know they must be destroyed, but I can’t remember why.” He looked at Napoleon in rising panic. “Do you think I’ve been drugged?”

Napoleon’s gaze darted to the clutch of vodka bottles in the kitchen. “Hmm, I think that’s a possibility.” He leaned forward, pulling down Illya’s lower lids to examine his eyes, then making him stick his tongue out. Finally he patted his knee. “Don’t worry. The effects seem to be wearing off.”

“I had the record store deliver every copy they had.” He peered at Napoleon owlishly. “I hope I’ll be reimbursed for the expense.”

“I’ll put in a good word.”

“Thank you.” Illya’s pleased smile twisted in confusion. “What was I saying?”

“You bought all the copies…”

“Oh, yes. Then I smashed them to bits. And jumped on them for good measure.” The last phrase seemed to catch him by surprise and he stopped short, frowning perplexedly.

“Well, it sounds as if you were as thorough as usual. If I may ask, how did you dispose of the remains of these dangerous albums?”

“At first I thought to put them down the incinerator. Then I realized the lab should really analyze them. So I packed them up for you to take back to headquarters.” He gestured to the end of the sofa. Napoleon recognized an agency briefcase, one designed to safely carry the most harmful of contents. He picked it up and flicked open the latches. The case was filled with jagged, grooved pieces of black vinyl.

“Well, well, well.” He found Illya watching him in eager expectation, and continued, “…done. Well done. Yes, I’ll have them start looking at these right away.” He closed the case and returned it to the floor. “Any memory stirring about the danger these pose?”

Illya shut his eyes and ran his knuckle up and down his nose. “One of the songs…hurts when I think about it.” He opened his eyes. “Perhaps that’s it. Thrush has created another sonic weapon.”

“Could be. Good thing you left one intact.” He picked up the album.

“Yes, you are right. I was going to give you the honor of smashing the last copy, but it should be examined carefully.” He held out his hand for the album, and Napoleon passed it over. Illya set it in his lap and ran his fingers over the glossy cardboard. His brow furrowed as he stared at it. Napoleon let him brood for several minutes before speaking. “Illya?”

The Russian raised his head, and the naked pain and confusion in his blue eyes made Napoleon look away. “Why did she do it, Napoleon? Why did she run?”

Napoleon balled his fist and rode out a wave of fury toward a certain grey-eyed witch. When he could trust himself to speak, he said, “You know, a wise man once told me, ‘Don’t think about what might have been. Things are what they are.’”

Illya considered the advice without recognizing its source. “Yes, wise words, indeed.” He lunged for the vodka bottle beside Napoleon. “Come, let us drink to this man and his wisdom.”

He missed the bottle and fell forward. Napoleon caught him. “Whoa there, pal. Let’s save the drinks for later. You’re coming with me.” He pulled Illya to his feet.

“Where are we going?”

“To headquarters. There's a record to be analyzed, and UNCLE needs its best man on the job.”

“But I’m on vacation.”

“Sorry. Not anymore. I’m recalling you.”

“Very well.” Illya looked down at his rumpled clothes. “I should clean up.”

“Yes, a nice, long, hot shower should make you feel like a new man.”

Napoleon turned Illya in the direction of his bathroom. The Russian walked carefully across the floor, as if it were the deck of a ship in a high gale. He disappeared behind the door, and a few minutes later Napoleon heard the water running.

While Illya showered, Napoleon set the apartment to rights, closing the windows and adjusting the radiator to a more moderate temperature. A trip to the dumpster took care of the vodka bottles and the albums. By the time he returned, a pot of coffee had finished brewing.

Illya emerged from the bathroom, dressed in a robe. He toweled his damp hair gingerly and sniffed the air. “Is it strong?”

“Like mud,” Napoleon answered, carrying two steaming cups to the sofa.

They sat sipping coffee in companionable silence. Eventually, Illya asked, “Why did you come here today? As far as you knew, I was on vacation.”

“Your left me a message.”

“I did?”

“Well, a message of sorts. Actually, you called in and crooned the 'Song of the Volga Boatmen' to the girls in Communications.” Illya buried his face in his hand while Napoleon continued. “Fortunately, they thought it must be a secret code. I had your position triangulated, and here I am.”

“Are you angry?”

“Angry that my friend spent the last week drinking himself into a state of delusional paranoia without reaching out for help?” Napoleon asked sweetly.

“I’m sorry.”

“Apology accepted. Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not yet.”

“Are you going to be OK?”

Illya hesitated, then answered simply, “I must.”

“Anything I can do to help?”

“You already have. Thank you.”

"You're welcome." Napoleon drained his coffee cup and placed it on the table. “That’s enough chit-chat. We’ve got places to be.”

“Are we really going to headquarters?”

“No, to the Hellström Spa. I called and made an appointment for you with Dagmar, my masseuse.” He clapped Illya on the back, unmindful of the delicate state of his partner's head. “An hour with Dagmar is just what you need. She has very large…hands.”

“And then?”

“Then you and I and Dagmar and her friend Anya are going to dinner and a show.”

“Oh, Napoleon, I don’t think I’m up to all that.”

“I'm afraid you have no choice. It's an order.” He pointed to himself. “Senior agent, CEA, and acting Chief of UNCLE New York. Take your pick.”

“Very well,” Illya said with a resigned sigh. “But don’t expect sparkling conversation.” He stood and headed to his bedroom to change.

“Heaven forbid. That’s my department,” he called over his shoulder. “Just be yourself. I’ve been assured that Anya likes a brooding man of mystery.”

Illya mumbled something in response. Napoleon thought it sounded like, “At least someone does.” He didn’t ask for clarification.

Napoleon collected the cups and moved toward the kitchenette. He was surprised to see Illya standing in the bedroom doorway. The Russian met his gaze clearly and squarely for the first time that afternoon. “Napoleon,” he asked, “does it get easier?”

Napoleon nodded. “In time.”

Illya searched his face, then smiled wanly and shut the door.


End file.
